"No, they won't present us with a racing stud," lisps the gunner, "but, by
G----, they'll shy chaff enough at us to keep all the bloomin' horses
between 'ere and 'ell, and the girls will send us a kid's feedin' bottle,
as a mark of feelin' and esteem, every Valentine's Day for ten years to
come, because of the glorious name we made for Australia on the bloody
fields of war in Africa."

"Fields o' war--fields o' whisky 'nd watermelons! Oh, d---- it! I'm going
ter stop writing ter my girl before she writes ter tell me that a white
feather don't suit a girl's complexion in Australia."

He lifts his bugle, and sounds "Feed up" so savagely that the horses strain
on their leg ropes and kick themselves into a lather as hot as their
riders' tempers, the long, loose-limbed troopers move off, cursing
artistically in their beards at the very thought of the roasting they will
get from the witty-tongued, red-lipped girls of Australia, when--


They cross the rolling ocean,
Back from the fields of war,
To show the British medal
They got for guarding a store.

To show the British medal
On stations, towns, and farms,
They got for guarding the marmalade,
Far away from war's alarms.

To show the British medal,
With a blush of angry shame,